1.  She is compassionate.

Oh no, she isn’t, though

she manages to act sometimes

as if her heart is an open door.

Think oak thick as storm clouds.

Think iron clasps and bars.

Think sentries in black suits.

Think Meryl Streep

in “The Devil Wears Prada.”


2.  She is organized.

You cannot see her mind,

the tics and scraps, flakes,

notes, loose words, fallen

leaves.  Have you seen

her recycling bin?

Multiply that by thousands.

Even her dreams

pile up, come apart.


3.  She is comfortable in her skin.

No.  There are other skins

she’d rather, and despair

prickles like a beggarman

in the sole of her sock.

So many years, but it’s not

those wrinkles she minds.

Rather, thin places, calluses

that will never grow.

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